


Voices

by Kyonomiko



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark Draco Malfoy, Dubious Consent, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-08 16:00:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16432508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyonomiko/pseuds/Kyonomiko
Summary: Hermione has long accepted she might not make it through the war alive, but after years on the battlefield, she never expected to end up at the mercy of Draco Malfoy.  Not untouched by his own experiences, his manic behavior leaves her living in constant fear of the unknown, suffering both affections and afflictions at his hands.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Dramione Fanfiction Writers for dragging me out of my comfort zone. As part as their tropes fest, the concept of "Dark Draco" was literally drawn out of a cauldron and thrust upon me. I hope I did the trope justice.
> 
> Also huge thanks as always to LightofEvolution and In Dreams for Beta and Alpha work. Hearts and hugs, ladies.

War is a stubborn and endless thing. This century's second wizarding war is no different, continuing much longer than anyone would have believed. The Dark. The Light. Everyone had been so confident in the beginning that they would bring the conflict to a swift end.

Unfortunately, it hadn't happened that way. The infamous face off between Harry and Tom Riddle had been a draw and only served to make the Dark more determined, knowing Harry had the Deathly Hallows in his possession.

After almost ten years of fighting, if you count Riddle's resurrection as being the start of it all, the war still rages, even bloodier than before.

As far as Hermione and the Order can tell, the Death Eaters have become more desperate over time. Core players like Bellatrix were always deadly. Always vicious. But now, some of the more tame members, the younger set, are equally playing for keeps.

In her most recent battle with members of the Dark, she had watched Dean Thomas fall to the wand of Greg Goyle and cursed herself for being a part of saving Goyle's life years ago. In fact, her entire cell was dispatched by the end, leaving only Hermione. A mess of awkward limbs, she had gone toe to toe with Marcus Flint and lost, another spell taking her by surprise from an unknown source.

Now, lying beaten on the ground, her hair fanned around her head and blood seeping into the roots from lacerations on her scalp, she squeezes her eyes closed and prays for the first time since she was a little girl. Prays and whimpers for a mother she no longer has.

She feels her body turned none too gently onto her back and cries out as pain shoots down her legs. Both broken, she would imagine. Her eyes remain closed, and she concentrates on breathing, not expecting it to be something she will do much longer.

"Well, well…" hot breath hits her ear, and a set of fingers trail her jaw.

_Please, dear Merlin, no_ , she thinks, knowing the voice and his reputation for cruelty. He casts the  _Cruciatus_  in battle with greater frequency than any  _Avada_ , seeming to enjoy inflicting pain more than anything else. She's not sure how many he's killed, but believes the number to actually be lower than most. His spells have a more lasting effect than death.

"Pretty kitty broke her legs. You won't be any fun to play with like this." She feels a warmth spread down her lower half, and the pain is dulled.

"What the fuck, Malfoy?" The voice is agitated and rushed. "Finish the bitch so we can get back."

"Oh no… this one is special. I want some playtime with her before we're done."

"Whatever…"

Hermione can't tell who the other voice is. Her head is starting to swim from her loss of blood, and her prayers for a quick death don't seem to be answered. She feels herself lifted and then she is whirled away, side along.

They land somewhere that is quiet, and then things are fuzzy for a time. She thinks maybe she passes out.

After an hour, a day, however long it takes, Hermione finally wakes and has difficulty understanding where she is. Her pain is gone; that she knows. Her wounds seem healed, and she feels clean and comfortable.

Her eyes open for the first time, and she lies silently, looking up at an ornate ceiling. Moldings trim the walls, and the center is recessed in the elegant style of older estates. She's been out of it for some time, but she instantly guesses where she is: Malfoy Manor.

Where else would Draco Malfoy have taken her?

"Oh, excellent." His voice is low and slippery, a hiss more than words. "You're awake."

Hermione snaps her gaze toward the sound and finds him sitting in a fireside, a tumbler of amber liquid in one hand. He's dressed as if he's expected at Windsor, pristine and formal.

"Malfoy?" She's afraid, but simply too weak to show it. Her instinct is to scramble away from him, but finds her limbs to heavy to move. Her distress grows into panic when she slowly realizes it is more than that. She can't move because she is bound.

"Hermione Granger," he notes, a thoughtful lilt to his voice. "You gave me quite a scare. I was afraid I might have to put you down."

"That scared you?" she prompts quietly, almost afraid for him to clarify.

She watches him rise from the chair, poised and smooth. He's a cobra swaying before the strike, and suddenly their house lines have metaphorical form. Hermione is a broken lioness, stretched out on hard ground.

"I'd hate to lose my prize. I've never taken a trophy before, usually just let my brothers finish off your side. But you, Hermione," he says, eyes trailing her, "you are a rare find."

She whimpers, eyes closing for a moment, her body trembling under his gaze.

"Are you going to kill me?" She tries to sound less affected than she truly is. Pragmatic. Looking for answers. The Hermione that Draco Malfoy would recognize. Truly, she expects to die in this room. She just hopes it will be sooner rather than later. If he keeps her alive, she only has two theories as to why, and neither will be pleasant.

"Do you  _want_  me to kill you?" He seems bemused, a light chuckle in his tone, the utter bastard.

"I don't imagine you care what I want."

"Hm, smart girl," he whispers, close enough to touch. His fingertips graze the skin of her arm and she shivers, the binding spell holding her in place. "But I do have a vested interest in the things I want, Granger." His hand lays more firmly against her, slowly raising toward her shoulder and sliding beneath her sleeve and cupping around her arm. His other hand finds her collarbone, tracing the line, and then one digit continuing to the dip between her breasts. "For instance, I've always wanted a little taste of your filthy cunt."

"Oh God," she releases with a sob, her worst nightmare realized. Torture or rape or both; that is the end of the life and legacy she has lived. The Order will find her, broken and empty, a corpse left to destroy Harry's morale even further. She wasn't sure he would come back from it last time a victim was presented at his virtual door step. Luna had been left as a message, both literal and metaphorical, a note from Dolohov pinned into the skin of her chest.

"Please, just kill me, please." It says something that she is not even attempting to gain her freedom. She knows begging for release is beyond impossible. Maybe, if she can appeal to whatever humanity is left in him, he will  _Avada_  her and be done.

"Why on earth would I do that," he asks her, putting on a face of mock confusion. "You're my darling pet now, Hermione. Mine, and no one even knows you're here."

"What?" Her heartbeat quickens.

"Oh yes. They burned the bodies, you see. Incinerated. The Order will believe you were amongst them. I didn't even have to ask. It's Gregory, bless him. A bit of a pyro since Vince died. I think he's just punishing himself, between you and me," he adds conspiratorially, as if the psychological fuckery of Greg Goyle is even remotely her current concern.

"But… the others… The ones who were with you…?"

"Oh, my fellow Death Eaters?" He laughs lightly, just a joke between friends, as he crawls onto the bed and settles himself against her. "They think I had my fill of you days ago while you slept. Assume I raped you into this mattress then dumped your body in the dungeons."

"B-because you have a history of doing that?" Her trembling has increased to tremors of fear, imagining that is exactly what is about to happen. Has he healed her just to start the cycle of pain all over again? Will he fuck her to death on this bed?

His face darkens, some sort of uncertainty flashing across it. "Of course not. I don't bring just any Order slag into my bed." His brow smoothes once again, his countenance softens. "But you… I hardly understand it myself, but you are very different, Hermione Granger. You'll be the first and the last."

"... last?"

"Of course." He cups her face, turning her head toward him. She finds that she can barely move, but under his touch she is as pliant as a doll. "Why would I need any other witch when you are mine?"

"Oh fuck… please, please… just let me go,  _please_ …" She's begging in earnest now, terrified of the picture he paints. Will her keep her here until the end of the war? Torturing and raping and healing her just to start all over again?

He frowns. "Well, I can't do that, obviously. You can't just let your pets wander about, or they might be hurt. Or stolen away from you. No, my little kitty, you will stay here."

She searches her mind. Over the course of their short conversation it is becoming clear to her that he is a bit unstable, prattling incoherently like Bellatrix Lestrange has always been want to do. Perhaps dementia is rampant amongst the Black bloodline…

"Am I to lay in this bed forever? My limbs will atrophy. I'll… I'll waste away, and you won't have a pet."

He laughs then, heartily, and she flinches. Malfoy slides his arm across her belly, hooking his hand beneath her and tugging her close. "Of course not," he answers finally, nuzzling his nose against her cheek. "I'll give you your freedom in this room, Granger." He pauses to look at her, his eyes instantly growing more cold than before. She'd hardly realized there was something like warmth in them until it was gone. "But not yet. Of  _course_  not yet. You're still feral. I have to be sure you won't try to bite my hand or make mischief. You'll be tame before I can let you roam about. It's up to you to decide how long you want to be difficult."

"I can behave," she tries, feeling a glimmer of hope. If she can earn freedom, she's a smart witch and surely could find a way to escape. After all, what is Malfoy Manor but a house? And all houses have doors.

His eyes brighten once again and he chuckles. "I'm sure you can," he concedes. "But I'm not stupid enough to believe you will. Not yet, at least."

Hermione stiffens when he begins to move his hand once again, slipping from around her hip toward her chest. "Fuck, Granger, were you always this delectable? Gods, we are going to have so much fun…"

"Please, don't…"

He stops moving, his fingertips barely laid on the swell of her breast. "You're not supposed to say 'no', pet. Or don't you want to be a good girl?"

That's when the first tear falls. Is he going to force her, not  _violently_  to be taken, but instead force her to  _agree_? It's almost worse that way.

"I… I don't…" She doesn't know how to answer. Does she simply lay here and think of England? Does she fight? And how? She can barely move anything except her mouth. The only way he has left her to fight is by arguing, and he's giving her that choice. Will it be painless if she doesn't?

"Shhh…poor kitten." The tip of his nose trails toward her temple, and then she feels his tongue, quick like a serpent, lap against her ear lobe. Hermione whimpers again, but, conflicted, still doesn't answer. "You've had a terrible few days. I must apologize," he says quietly into her ear, "for my overzealous brothers. Yaxley, you see, he is the one who broke your legs. Snapped them with a spell of his own design."

He pulls back then to look at her, expression changed once again. Neither cold nor emotionally warm, he looks curious like a child. "You might like this, actually, great swot that you are. He modified an old spell, pre-Ministry. Before we realized the purpose of house elves, wizards kept slaves, just as muggles did," he says brightly. "Perhaps we have more similarities than we know. Don't let the Dark Lord hear me say that of course," he snickers. "Anyway, there were spells, specific to slave handling. This one was to stop someone from running away." He gestures down to her healed bones. "It seems like it would have been effective, wouldn't you agree?"

She looks at him, aghast. The longer she's here, the more she fears for her future, much more than if she thought an  _Avada_  was in her fate. He'd absolutely mad, she realizes then. He's nothing like the boy she remembers. Only flashes of the haughty, entitled princling are still there.

He's still looking at her, expectant, and she realizes he is waiting for a response. Unsure if she's going for irony, cheek, or simply truth, she answers, "Yes. It would be very effective."

He frowns at her again. "Don't try to trick me, Granger."

Hermione blinks.  _How was that trickery…?_

"I know you're not broken yet, so stop pretending to be so docile. Where's the fight in you, lioness? If I wanted a fucking Hufflepuff, I could have had one by now."

She's terrified, she really is, of his mood swings as much as anything, but she can't help her pragmatic answer. "It was a straightforward question. I could fight you on a lot of things, but not the truth."

"Hm," is his only reply, like he needs to consider her comment further.

Before she can wonder what he might do next, he has jumped off the bed and is straightening his cuffs and looking down at her with slight disdain. There he is, she thinks. There's the pureblood she knows.

"I've a dinner engagement. I will make sure one of the elves cleans you up. It's been a few days since you had a bath."

"A bath-?"

Then he is gone, striding out the door and slamming it behind him.

An elf does indeed visit her that evening. She protests as the elf levitates her into a large soaking tub, removing her clothes magically as she was floating along. "Let me down! Stop it! I can put myself into a fucking bathtub!"

It's all irrelevant, her efforts to appeal to the elf. He doesn't even speak to her. She tries to appeal to the creature's mercy. She tries to convince. She makes both promises and threats to bestow clothes.

After twenty minutes, during which she has cried and screamed and whimpered, she is deposited with a plop back onto the bed, wrapped in a light purple silk robe, and the elf pops away.

It's then she realizes she is quite hungry, and wonders how they have sustained her the past few days. She assumes she has not been here more than a week, going by the tone of Malfoy's conversation, but would still have needed to be fed.

She's alone for what must be the night. She sleeps, she believes, though it's hard to say for how long. Alone with her thoughts, trapped inside her own head, she is almost delirious with exhaustion and hunger by the time she sees the rays of sun filter in through the east window, chasing the shadows into the corners of the room. No one returns for her during the day, the light outside slowly fading as the hours pass.

She might be asleep again when the elf returns, a tray in his hands. He lays it next to her head on the side table, and immediately the smell is enough to make her weep. Before the elf can snap himself away, she tries again to speak to him.

"Please, is that for me? I can't… I can't move so I can't eat. Please."

The elf looks conflicted for the first time. "Pipsy isn't supposed to speak to Miss."

"You don't have to," she assures him quickly. "You don't have to say another word. Just please release my hands. Or levitate some of it into my mouth. Please."

There is a long pause before the elf, seeming to decide speaking with her is a smaller offense than feeding her, says, "Master Draco is to be feeding you." And then, he is gone.

She cries then, the tears running tracks down her temple and into her hair.

It must be the dead of night by the time he returns. Draco storms into the room, still donning his Death Eater robes, his mask still on his face. Hermione stares at him with wide eyes, noting the spatter of blood across the horrible frozen face of his mask.

She watches as he begins to shuck off the robes, throwing the mask into the corner of the room absently, and strips down to just his pants. As far as he's paid her any mind, he might have forgotten she is here at all.

His back is marked and scarred, she notes, and wonders if her side did that, or if the Death Eaters often turn on one another. Neither would surprise her.

"Please," she rasps out, and watches him flinch. He turns around and his eyes bore into hers.

The look makes her falter, but she steels herself with a breath. "Please, can I please have something to eat?"

He looks her over with cold detachment, then turns without a word and disappears into the en suite. She sobs once, then closes her eyes tight and tries to pretend she is very far away.

Malfoy isn't gone long. He comes out with a towel around his waist and his hair wet and mussed, rubbing a smaller towel against it. When he looks at her this time, he grins. "I'll bet you're hungry."

She could weep all over again, but instead just nods in response.

Watching him warily, she doesn't take her eyes off him as he makes his way to bed, setting the second towel aside. He slides his index finger under the first layer of her robe where it is crossed over the other side. "I like this," he says quietly. "Pretty."

Does she say 'thank you'? Hermione is at a loss as far as how to navigate him. He left her to starve for an entire day, but had her cleaned and dressed and is all soft compliments. "It's yours," she finally answers, referring to the robe.

Malfoy grins at that, and she realizes exactly what he's thinking. "All mine. Fuck… Who ever thought I'd have my own little kitty to play with?"

Hermione takes a breath, summoning the courage that had dwindled while she was hurt and disoriented. "You won't have anything if you don't feed me."

"Obviously. What do you think this is?" He gestures to the tray she can barely see in her peripheral.

"I wouldn't know." It's hard to sound prim when you are captured and bound, but she manages it. "I can't move, and I can hardly even see it."

"It's meant to be your dinner," he says, sounding a bit more dangerous than before. "But I don't know if you sound grateful enough."

She swallows, hearing the warning in his tone, and her hunger wins out over her pride. "I didn't know if it was for me. The elf wouldn't say."

His eyes flash in the way they sometimes do when his mood shifts. She's only had one conversation with him, and already she can pick up his expressions. "Pipsy is a good elf. He's been instructed not to talk to you. I can't let you go putting any notions into his head about being a free elf." Then he smiles and it's so boyish and genuine it makes her head spin. "Don't think I've forgotten about your little campaign. Bleeding heart Gryffindor, through and through."

"He was a very good elf," she agrees, not wanting to get the creature in trouble by admitting he had spoken at all. "Does that mean you'll let me eat?"

He scoffs at her as he stands, his towel low on his hips and in danger of sliding off. He doesn't seem to mind either way. "I can't imagine why I'd go through the trouble of having the food brought if I wasn't going to give it to you."

"To torture me," she says, without thinking, then immediately bites her lip to stifle anything further.

His eyes are dark once again when he looks down at her. "If I was going to torture you, Hermione, you're aware my reputation is beyond this." He gestures to the food. "I have spells for that, kitten. I was hoping we could have a different type of relationship."

She nods, unable to do anything else and afraid to speak.

"Well then," he says, turning back to the tray and pulling the cloche from the first dish. Immediately, she's hit by a stronger smell of soup. Something rich and unctuous. A cream-based soup with autumn spices, and her mouth waters.

"Pumpkin bisque," he confirms. "I do hope that's to your liking. I can have the kitchens make other preparations if not." He has slipped back into the roll of host and aristocrat.

"It smells wonderful," she allows with honesty. "But… I won't be able to eat, unless…" She trails off, glancing down at herself.

Malfoy laughs lightly, as if her paralyzed state is merely a bit of a lark. An amusing prank amongst school chums. "Not to worry, love, I will take care of that."

She sighs with relief, waiting for the movement to return to her limbs, but it never comes. Instead, her captor moves toward her and slides his arms beneath her body, curling his hands over her shoulders from her back. He slides her up the headboard, propping her against it gently and fluffing the pillows that surround her. "There, now. Wouldn't want you to choke, would we?"

Hermione watches in mild horror as he retrieves the shallow bowl and a wide soup spoon, settling in beside her. He intends to feed her, she realizes, and all she can do is accept it lest he take it away due to her ingratitude.

Laying the bowl of the spoon into the soup, she watches as the liquid rushes inside, her mouth watering. When she looks up to his face, Malfoy is watching her intently. He lifts the spoon toward his own lips, and, for one agonizing moment, she thinks he is going to swallow it down. That he will make her watch him eat and this was all a ruse. Instead, he gently blows out, the soup rippling under his breath. "Careful," he whispers. "It's still hot."

Gently, he lays the edge of the spoon against her lip until she parts them, opening her mouth so he can slide the spoon inside. It is, as he said, still quite warm, obviously having been under a stasis charm the past hours. The soup itself is delicious. Perfectly thickened and tasting as rich as it smells, she closes her eyes as she swallows it, feeling her neck bob as she does. When she opens them again, he is still watching her, but his eyes have fallen to her lips.

"Too hot, love?" His voice is soft, almost reverent.

Hermione shakes her head no. "It's perfect." Her gratitude for the nourishment is second only to her sense of wariness over the wizard feeding her with care. If she says the wrong thing, she has learned quickly, he will take it away and leave her once again. She's hungry. She will play nice.

He smiles, and it's once again that boyish look that reminds her of his youth.

They continue like that until the bowl is empty and Hermione no longer feels a hollow to her stomach. "I have a treat for you," he tells her next. He lays the bowl back on the tray, and moves to a dish of berries with cream. Settling back beside her on the bed, he shows her the bowl, holding it close to her face and leaning toward her. His nose brushes hers before he says, "Cream for my kitten."

It makes her heart race, the intimacy in his voice, and then shame follows after. How much of this is a trick, she wonders. How much of him is real? What part of him is real? He threatened her only moments ago, and now she feels like she's being seduced by an expert playboy.

When she doesn't react, only looks at him with wide eyes, he clears his throat and leans back. "I remember," he says, "you always seemed to like strawberries. Back in the Great Hall," he clarifies. "You always had two bowls when they offered them on shortcake, always forgoing the cake. So I've left that part out." He smiles and picks up one gingerly, pinched between two fingers, dips it into the cream, and lays it against her mouth.

Once again, she takes his cue and parts her lips for him, taking the berry between her teeth and chewing slowly as he watches. It's juicy and ripe and lightly sweetened with cream smeared across the tip. "Good girl," he praises, and she is disgusted with herself for her relief at his approval.

She finishes the bowl in much the same manner. At the end, he picks up a cloth napkin from the tray and dabs at the corners of her mouth.

"Thank you," she finally says, having not spoken since the first bite of soup, and meaning it more than she'd even realized.

"Are you satisfied?"

It's strange phrasing, but she nods her response. It's only after his expression changes that she grows afraid once again. "It is only fair to return my efforts, is it not? Satisfaction in turn…"

She stiffens immediately, and his hand lays against her throat. She swallows, and it seems to please him. "I like feeding you," he confesses. "I love watching this pretty throat bob as you swallow it down. What would you do, I wonder, if I shoved my cock so deep I could feel your neck bulge under my hand?"

Her breath quickens and she feels her eyes prick at the corners. The gentle version of this wizard vanished as fast as he came, and she is back to the reality of her own impending torture. Is this part of a sick game? Making her feel safe so he can continue to provide fresh terror?

Keeping his right hand held at her throat, both possessive and threatening, he buries his other hand into her curls, tightening his fist and tugging at the roots. Her head tilts under his whims, her face inches from his as her scalp starts to sting. Malfoy nips once at her bottom lip, eliciting a harsh intake of breath. "Are you afraid of me, Hermione?"

How does she answer? Does she say 'no'? Does she try to convince him he's not monster he seems? Would that pacify him? Or would he feel the need to prove her wrong?

Shuddering as her mind runs away with possibilities, she settles on truth once again. "Yes."

He answers with a grin that sets her blood to ice. "Oh, good," he breathes through his toothy smile. "You certainly should be."

With that, he drops her back down roughly, releasing his grip on her hair. When he stands, she is mortified to see that his towel is left behind on the bed, and he faces her, unashamed, his erection bobbing in front of him.

She's bracing herself. Mentally, physically… trying to be prepared for what is to come. He is rigid, twitching, with a drop of moisture sitting right at his tip. When he reaches forward and takes himself in hand, she feels her breath stutter in anticipation.

He begins to pump himself slowly then, his large hand making deliberate passes up and down his shaft. He swipes over the end, collecting the pre-cum there, and moans softly at the effect. All the while, he looks at her. His eyes pan from her curls to her feet, pausing occasionally in various places. When he reaches down to her, Hermione's face flinches, but that is all the movement his binding spell allows.

Reaching into the middle fold of her robe, he pushes the fabric away and palms her breast gently, thumb swiping over her nipple in rhythm with his hand. "Oh, fuck, yes. Merlin's cock, you have such pretty, pretty nipples, Hermione. She feels herself pebble under his attentions, the movements achingly slow and measured. "I'm going to paint you with my cum. I want you covered, dripping with my seed. So you know…" his pace on his cock speeds up, and his other hand simply lays possessively on her breast. "So you know to whom you belong," he finishes with effort. "So you know… you're mine. You're… fucking…  _mine_ ," he growls out as he reaches his completion.

She clenches her eyes shut, waiting to feel his disgusting fluids rope against her exposed chest, but it never comes.

When she finally opens her eyes, he's standing over her, breathing hard. Malfoy has turned himself away from her, finishing himself onto the plush carpet beneath his feet. "But not today," he says. When he looks back, it's sharp and assessing, his near reverence from before having slipped away.

"Pipsy!"

The elf pops into the room just as Malfoy wraps himself back with the towel. "Clean that up," he barks, pointing to the tray that once held her meal. She realizes then she is thirsty and the carafe of water was untouched while he fed her.

"Please… the water, please…"

She looks at him with pleading eyes and he sneers down at her. He locks into her gaze as he says, "Leave the water, Pipsy."

Once the elf is gone, Hermione still panting and afraid, he adds, "Good luck trying to drink it."

With a smile that could freeze the earth's core, he is gone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione has long accepted she might not make it through the war alive, but after years on the battlefield, she never expected to be at the mercy of Draco Malfoy. Not untouched by his own experiences, his manic behavior leaves her living in constant fear of the unknown, suffering both affections and afflictions at his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued thanks to Dramione Fanfiction Writers, LightofEvolution, and In Dreams :)

For days to follow, Hermione is never certain which Malfoy has come to pay her a visit. Sometimes he is downright nurturing, offering her lush foods and plentiful drink.

Some days he crosses boundaries, much as he had before, pumping himself while he touches her. Everytime that particular Malfoy comes to visit, she is awaiting the day he will actually take her. As of yet, that has not been the case.

Sometimes he is a dangerous and angry Malfoy, and she isn't sure if she prefers the sexual perversion or the fits of rage. They both terrify her in different ways.

On what she calculates as her fifth waking day, he casts the  _Cruciatus_  on her. It isn't as strong as that cast by Bellatrix, and it is brief, but it hurts nonetheless and leaves her shivering. That night, Pipsy brings her meal, and her arms are freed so she might feed herself. It's almost worth the pain, having some small taste of freedom. When the elf leaves, her arms remain unbound, and a book is laid on the bed by her side. It's nothing special. Some wizarding fiction about a dragon poacher with a heart of gold, but she devours it, grateful for anything to distract her.

Malfoy doesn't return for three days, Pipsy continuing to give Hermione whatever she needs. On the third day, she is even given a new book. Having already read the other one twice and starting on her third pass, she nearly sobs when she sees it. It's a historical account of the construction and early years of Ilvermorny; much more her speed.

On the fourth day, Draco pops into the room with blood literally on his hands. This time, he doesn't ignore her as he undresses. Instead, he greets her and keeps his gaze on hers as he unbuttons his robes. She is looking at him, his red-stained hands slipping the buttons, completely horrified.

"Don't worry, kitten, it's not mine."

Her gaze snaps back up to his. That wasn't at all what had worried her. She had assumed it wasn't his. What worries her is…

"Whose is it?"

The playful smile falters a little as he thinks back, head cocked to the side like he's trying to puzzle it out. "Dolohov's, I think."

She's stunned by that. Has he… is it too much to hope he's turned traitor to his cause? Turned against his own side? "Did you kill him?"

He laughs again, a sound she has come to fear, as unpredictable as he is. He's as likely to strike her as kiss her, and she's not sure which is worse. "Of course not! He's on my side. No, no, someone in your lot really had it out for him. I told him not to go after that Loony Lovegood bird. Only served to make it personal."

He looks at her then, and his expression softens, his eyes taking on a far away look. "That's why I did it right by you. Didn't make it personal for them. Didn't let them know I'd taken you."

"Someone knows," she blurts out, having thought on their earlier conversation. "That other Death Eater with you. You told him you were going to… play with me. He knows you took me. If he thinks I'm dead, he knows it was you who did it."

"Greg? Oh, darling, Greg definitely thinks you're dead," he says so cheerfully she could scream. "Some Muggle girl was killed in a raid, and I charmed her body all up to look like you. Of course, I didn't tell him  _I'd_  done it. Blamed it on Mulciber after that great pillock Wood killed him. Greg's just stupid enough to throw your death around to the wrong people. And, as I said about Dolohov, Salazar bless his soul, I didn't need any vigilante's trying to punish me over you."

Her head spins. That's it then. No one knows she's here. The only hope she has is to survive long enough that the war ends. And, even then, only if her side wins will it matter. After ten years of fighting, a quick end is not in her cards to hope for.

He has stripped to nothing and is standing naked at the foot of the bed. "I'm not into punishment, pretty kitten."

His tone is disgustingly flirty, and it gives her enough bravery to retort, "No, you're only into punishing  _me_."

His face goes dark, lips turning down into a frown. "I don't punish you."

"Oh, yes? The  _Cruciatus_ was a reward then?"

"I don't care for you questioning me." His tone tells her she has pushed as far as she dares. She won't apologize; she's not that broken. But she doesn't respond or goad him further.

There's a beat in which he is silent and she keeps her eyes trained over his shoulder. Finally, he speaks, and his tone is back to light. "I thought you might like to feed yourself again tonight." It's true that, so far, she has only been allowed to feed herself when Draco wasn't there. Before that, he had always done it for her.

"That would be fine," she says carefully, unsure if he would take offense if she said it would be 'nice' or welcomed it in anyway.

He nods once and turns his back to her, walking into the en suite and closing the door behind him.

Two days later, after uneventful hours in which Hermione was allowed to feed herself and given new books to read, she is lying bound once again on her side, Malfoy rutting against her. Her eyes are shut tight, but she doesn't cry this time.

He was in a good mood today, calling her pretty and sweet and good, and when he had crawled into the bed, he left her modesty covered, only touching her face where he has cupped her cheek, the tips of his fingers buried softly into her hair.

She can feel him, hard and thick, slammed up against her thigh, only her thin robe between them. His face is buried in the apex of her neck, grunting and moaning softly against her.

"So fucking soft, Hermione. Gods, you're so fucking soft and sweet." His mouth, open and hot, lays against the skin of her neck, panting and grunting out his praises. He compliments her smell and her taste, licking up her throat and suckling her earlobe into his mouth. "You're mine," he likes to say in times like these. "All mine. No one can take you. Not Potter," he grunts, "not fucking Weasley, not even the Dark Lord. No one… but me."

He turns her head then, pulling her toward him with the grip on her neck, and crashes his lips against hers. She should bite him, she will think later, but for now she's so shocked, she simply opens her mouth on a gasp and lets him lap at her tongue while he shoots his cum against her leg. He moans into her mouth, and, when he is spent, keeps his forehead pressed against hers as he gulps in oxygen. "Absolutely perfect," he says, and she isn't sure if he means her or the orgasm.

He pulls himself away from her and starts to dress. As he is halfway into buttoning his shirt, he stops and looks down at her. His face has gone passive again, eyes blank. Not all the way to angry or dangerous, but he no longer looks as if anything about what just happened is perfect. "I'll send Pipsy to clean up this mess." He says it with accusation, as if she is to blame for his cum dripping down his silk sheets.

XXXXXXXXX

It must be weeks, not days, before he lets her walk. His spell has somehow kept her body strong, regulating the blood flow and contractions of her muscles. Still, when she stands, she feels every bit a baby deer and has to hold onto the post of the bed.

"You look rather fetching hugging that pole," he comments from across the room, watching her like she is his own private dancer.

She dares to give him a glare, and he merely chuckles at her.

This is the first time she's seen him in two days. Pipsy has been ever faithful, bringing her books and food. It has become obvious to her that a spell disposes of her waste for her as well. Her greatest hope, being back on her feet, is that she will be allowed to take care of her own functions in the privacy of the en suite.

Hermione is almost afraid to ask, but she has to know. "Will you please leave me like this? I'm sure the wards are too strong for me to leave. Please? Just let me have this room?"

He looks taken aback. "I hadn't intended to keep you bedridden forever," he says, as if that should have been obvious. His eyebrows drop, though, once he's said it, and adds, "But it is a privilege that can be taken away if you are a bad little kitty."

She feels disgusting when she promises, "No, I'll be good." She doesn't know if she can survive much longer, trapped in that bed. Is her pride worth this mobility?

Yes.

"We'll see," he says with quite a lot of accusation. As if she has been anything but compliant since he brought her here. As if she has had a fucking choice.

"I'll be gone tonight," he tells her next, and she is taken aback. In the days… weeks… she's been here, he has never given her any indication of what schedule he might keep.

Too stunned to reply, too afraid to ask questions, she only looks at him.

"Not going to miss me, Princess?" he sneers at her, his face going even harder.

Hermione doesn't like these games. How can she ever know the right answer when he is so manic in his own moods? Diplomacy has been her best bet so far.

"It is lonely when I'm by myself."

It's true, at least. As much as she fears him, as much as she dreads his arrival and his strange moods, human interaction is still preferable to those three days she spent laying on her back, nothing but her mind to keep her company. It occurs to her, when the Dementors ran Azkaban, this is exactly what the inmates suffered. It's a wonder Sirius came out cohesive enough to reunite with Harry at all.

Malfoy frowns and stalks towards her. Wrong answer, she thinks, bracing herself for what comes next.

"That's not very specifically grateful, Granger, considering all the time I spend here with you. Do you imagine it's easy to slip away? Unnoticed by the Dark Lord? I've taken to telling him I visit the dungeons. When he catches me leaving here, smelling of sweat and sex, I tell him a Muggle got me off. He thinks I fuck them and obliviate them. And," he leans in, "he's rather proud of me for it."

She turns her head away, not liking the image, and knowing there must be truth to it. When he disappears from her room, is that what he is doing? And if not him, obviously his brethren must be indulging the same.

"Don't worry," he tells her then, softer. "It's not true."

She blinks, Malfoy managing to surprise her yet again. She turns her head his direction when he pets one palm down her curls, reassuring. "You're mine, I told you. I"ve no use for those other girls, the cold cunts and battered bodies." Hermione thinks she might be sick.

"Greg can settle for that if he wants, but I'm a Malfoy." Pressing his body against her, he cups her face in both hands and runs the tip of his nose across the bridge of hers. "Malfoys don't settle, pretty kitty…" His voice grows stronger, full of conviction and power. "Malfoys  _take_  what they want."

He tosses her back onto the bed and she shrieks, expecting this is why he freed her today. He finally intends to abuse her fully, and wanted her full range of motion so he might feel her writhe and fight. The sick bastard wants her to flail and scratch so he can take her like a beast. She thinks maybe she should just lie there, like any other time, but her instinct is to fight so she immediately thrashes as he lands atop her.

Before she can make a sound, her wrists are pinned over her head before in one of his strong hands, and his other palm covers her mouth. She whimpers and writhes just like she promised herself she wouldn't as he lays kisses along her jaw.

By the time he removes his hand from her mouth, instead reaching down to knead and caress her breast as he continues to kiss her, the tears have started to leak from her eyes and she is begging. "Please… please… please…."

He looks up, meeting her eyes. "You don't need to beg, love," he tells her. "You're mine. Tell me what you want. Do you want my cock?"

She whimpers, fear rising.

"That's it, isn't it?" he grins against her lips. "You want this cock inside you?" He grinds himself against her, illustrating his point.

"No," she chokes. "No, Draco, please."

Malfoy startles then, seeming to be confused. "No?" Then, that dangerous flash comes, and his mood shifts once again. "What have I said about you refusing me?"

"I'm… I'm not. I'm asking," she tries to placate him. She doesn't know what else to do now. "Please," she adds.

"Master?"

The voice is preceded by a pop and then Malfoy is groaning into her neck. " _What,_  Pipsy," he growls out.

"It be time, Master. Dark Master is waiting."

He sits up suddenly, pulling away from her. As he stands to his full height, looking down his nose at her, Hermione holds her breath, waiting for the verdict as to her immediate fate.

"Pipsy, feed Miss Granger. I will be gone for a time."

With that, he is gone, and Hermione spends the first night in a very long time with the use of her own legs.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Weeks pass. Probably  _months_  is more accurate, but Hermione can't bring herself to admit just how long it has been. With time, she begins to worry over things outside her tiny room in the world. She wonders after Harry and Ron. She thinks on the war and what is happening to those she loves. Malfoy is an unreliable source. In his better moods, he refuses to speak of anything regarding the war. He is almost childlike, unwilling to discuss anything serious and preferring to wax philosophic on the nature of Hermione's many charms or even his own egotistical love of himself. In his worse moods, he is cruel, telling her the war is no longer her concern. "When the Dark Lord wins, your situation will hardly change, Granger. Get comfortable, kitten, you're home."

But Hermione is clever and she listens very well. Sometimes, he says things, and she thinks perhaps the Order is in a stronger position than he might like to think. She presses her luck one day, asking if he knows if Ron is still alive, and he flies into a rage. It's the second time he uses the  _Cruciatus_ on her. Though again brief, it is painful, leaving her feeling as if fire is licking at her very bones. From that, however, and his ranting afterwards as she lies crumpled in the floor, she gleans that Ron is very much alive and has been instrumental in the death of quite a few Death Eaters. It makes her a little sad to know her sweet former lover has been forced to be part of such dark dealings. There was a time, early in the war, when the Golden Trio swore they would never take a life if they could help it.

It is unfortunate, probably, they made that vow. Perhaps if Harry had not defaulted to a disarming spell at the Battle of Hogwarts, this might all be over. She tries not to give a voice to those darker musings.

Malfoy's moods continue to range, erratic and unpredictable, as the seasons change twice outside the one large window. Mostly, he moves from cold and verbally intimidating, to playful and almost affectionate. His more violent tendencies remain in check, provided she doesn't bring up anything to do with the war or the Order.

He touches her, sometimes. In Death Eater robes, he is demanding and insistent, though he has yet to penetrate her. He talks about it, whispering in her ear as he ruts against her, promising all the things he can't wait to do. Why he has not, she really doesn't understand, but it's one of the things she is grateful for every day.

It is the days he arrives in casual attire that he is the most like his old self. Today, he comes swaggering through the door. Hermione immediately lays her book aside, knowing it's better not to ignore him when he deigns to visit.

"My lovely little kitty. Having a relaxing afternoon, I see?"

She agrees that, yes, she's doing well. He doesn't like when she complains and tends to take luxuries away. Luxuries being things like books and the use of her legs.

He approaches her slowly, unbuttoning his cuffs as he does. He rolls up his sleeves, and reveals his mark, ugly and irritated, against his pale skin.

He catches her staring. "Beautiful, isn't it? An amazing piece of spellwork, able to connect us all, his children,  _together_ , no matter our distance."

'Beautiful' isn't the word she would have chosen. "It is an incredible bit of magic," she concedes, hoping it will mollify him.

Malfoy cups her chin, forcing her to look, and shoves his forearm into her face. "Look at it, Granger. Does it make you afraid? Can you feel His power? I can," he whispers like a secret. "It's like He is pulsing beneath my skin, writhing like the snake in the skull."

She looks closely at the mark, realizing that, for all her months here, she's never studied it before. Usually, it is hidden inside his formal attire. Or, in those times when he is nude, she is closing her eyes and hoping he will be quick and gentle once again.

Now, gazing at it with intention, it does indeed appear to be writhing, like the  _Morsmordre_  she has seen in the sky. Mesmerized by it, she reaches her hand up, intent to feel the ink. To know if it feels as if it is in motion just as it appears.

Before she can make contact, Malfoy grabs her wrist, firm enough to hurt a little. " _Don't,_ " is all he says before tossing her hand away.

"Sorry," she mutters, not sure what she's apologizing for.

He waves her words away, a gesture she takes to mean that she is forgiven for this particular offense, and then makes his way to the en suite. Rather than close the door as he usually does, he pauses at the threshold and looks back. "Come on, Granger. Have you had a bath today?"

Immediately, panic settles against her bones. She knows better than to ignore the question and slowly shakes her head in the negative as she rises to obey. She likes her books and her legs, and that is her motivation to follow him.

Once inside, he closes the door. It's an odd gesture, she thinks, since no one has ever entered the room where she is held except for him. Habit, she would suppose. It is simply habit to close the door when entering the bath.

She watches as he starts the tap, testing the temperature of the water with his fingertips. When he seems satisfied, he gestures for her to come closer.

Part of her, the part that is still waiting for more torture than the very occasional she has experienced, wonders if the water will be scalding… or freezing. She looks at him fearfully, arms wrapped around herself.

"It's important to keep you clean, kitty. Untie your robe."

She doesn't think she hesitates long. Only a moment. Or perhaps it only feels that way because the blood rushes to her ears and she thinks she might faint. He has seen her before, of course, but never so completely. Never this vulnerable. It was always hurried and inefficient, pushing and pulling the fabric from her body, revealing parts of her but never the whole.

"Untie it," he says again, colder, "or I'll rip it off you, and you will remain nude as a house elf, wishing for the privilege of clothes."

She shudders a little, even as she pulls the tie at her waist, undoing the bow and letting the robe fall open. Hermione hears him suck in a breath, but keeps her eyes closed, shielding herself from whatever lay ahead.

One long finger delicately tucks beneath her chin, lifting her face towards his. "Open your eyes, my lioness. Show me your pretty pretty eyes." She looks up to find him standing close, but not touching her. "Has any wizard ever told you that you are exquisite, Hermione Granger?"

She shakes her head at him, and he frowns. She's afraid she might have said something very wrong, something to anger him, but he just tilts his head and laments, "Any man who has seen you and not praised you is a fool. I'm intelligent, love, I did not expect you came to me a virgin."

Stiffening, she is afraid of where this might lead. He has never asked about her romantic history. Knowing how possessive he has been, she is terrified to tell him anything about her experience with other men. Her only idea is to distract him. "Are you going to bathe me, Draco?"

His eyes widen infinitesimally before he answers, "That was my intention. Do you object?"

"No," she replies, thinking there are worse things than being clean. Worse things that have yet to happen but she knows could on any given day.

Answering with a broad grin, Malfoy slides the robe from her shoulders, letting it pool at her feet, and smoothes his hands down her arms. "Look at you…"

He takes her by the hand and leads her closer to the large soaking tub, now almost full with water. "Test it," he says, gesturing for her to touch the water. She does, and it's nice. Almost too warm, just how she would prefer.

"It's lovely," she tells him, and his grin widens.

He takes her hand again and, with his other on the small of her back, guides her to step into the water. Once submerged, still nervous in spite of the perfection of the water, she settles her back against the end farthest from the door so she can watch the opening. Some habits learned in a war are hard to break.

"May I wash you?" He's reverent Draco today. Attentive and accommodating.

Hermione answers politely with a small nod, preferring to keep him in this state of mind. "Thank you."

From somewhere behind her, he procures a soft sponge and dips it into the bath beside her, letting it soak up the fragrant water. "Do you like the scent? Moroccan mint. I noticed you prefer mint tea."

"You never give me tea," she says without thinking. It's always dangerous to disagree with him.

"Not here, you twit," he snaps, sponge stilling in his hand. She hears him take a breath, and then continue. "At Hogwarts. You always chose the mint tea." He lays the sponge against her shoulder, gently squeezing the water to cascade down her breasts.

This is not the first time he has mentioned her from before the war. She wonders how long he has had some level of obsession with her, because it is becoming increasingly clear that she was not simply in the wrong place. Had she been any other Order member, he would have killed her in the field or allowed someone else to do it. On that day so many months ago, he had said she was special. At the time, she didn't imagine he meant it at all.

"I do," she agrees, hoping it's not a mistake to continue the conversation. "My mother always liked her mint tea at home."

"Ah… the elusive Grangers. Do you know the Dark Lord hunted them for years? You are a formidable witch, Hermione, however you managed to hide them."

To that, she has no response. She could weep with relief to know that they are still safe, even if she will likely never see them again. Even if she comes through the war alive, they no longer know who she is. The memory charm she cast was incredibly thorough, and they will no sooner recognize her as a daughter or know they were ever the Grangers in the first place.

She doesn't realize she's crying when she feels the tip of Malfoy's finger catch the tear on her cheek. "Why so sad, love? If they were dead, I'd know," he adds, probably thinking it will make her feel better, but the flippant way he says it just makes her cry harder.

"I'm sorry," she says, not wanting to upset him. "I only miss them."

"I imagine you do," he says, and it's too late. His tone is dark once again. "No more than I miss mine, Granger. You're not the only one who matters, you know, the only one who had something to lose."

This time when he touches the sponge to the back of her neck, he pushes harder, forcing the water out quickly. Once it has drained down her back, he throws the sponge in the tub near her feet. She looks up to find him removing his shirt with precision, and her heartbeat quickens. "Malfoy…"

"It's  _Draco_ , you stupid witch, I've told you."

He hasn't, actually, but that's neither here nor there. Perhaps he meant to. Regardless, she tries again. "Draco, thank you for the bath. Could I please dry off now?"

"Oh, no no," he says with a manic grin. His anger is slipping away and leaving her with the most frightening Draco. This is the one that you can never anticipate. He might crucio her or touch her or simply walk away. When his trousers drop and she sees he is already erect, she knows what it is to be.

"Shove over, then. It's room enough for two if you make it."

Hermione pulls up her feet, tucking her knees against her chest. "That won't do," he chides. "You're covering up the best part."

He steps, first, one long leg over the tub and then the other and settles into the water in front of her. With one hand on each knee, he pries her legs apart and guides them to either side of his body. "Magnificent," he breathes out, running his hands up her thighs.

"Would you like me to wash you?" she tries, thinking that is not such a terrible fate. Perhaps she can satisfy him with light care.

"What a sweet witch you are. But, no, I am not here to be cleaned. I've joined my filthy witch in her filthy bath. Do you notice a theme, love? I come to you to be dirty."

She doesn't whimper any longer when he says these provocative things. After so many months, Hermione greets the unknown with a brave face.

Draco is on his knees between her thighs, leaning over her. He cups her face with his hands and presses one soft kiss to her lips. "Fuck, I'm so lucky. So fucking fortunate. Do you know how my brethren would have killed to take you? If they knew you were here, you with your beautiful eyes and sweet cunt. They would take you away and tear you into pieces."

She shuts her eyes. He's teetering on the brink, somewhere between veneration and those nights he tries to frighten her. He seldom promises harm from himself, as much as he reminds her how lucky she is to be in her position. How fortunate to not have have been Luna or Angelina Johnson or any number of nameless muggles who the Death Eaters have used to alleviate their boredom and their needs.

"Look at me," he whispers, and she does. His eyes are the deepest of stormy skies, and she knows he is looking for release. "Touch me."

It's a request he's never made before. For half a year, he has taken his pleasure by thrusting against her, perhaps touching her lightly, but never has he request she partake in their coupling. If this was his long game to make her compliant, she hates herself for knowing that it has worked. If it will keep his cruelty and mania away, she will do as he asks.

Reaching between them, she takes his cock in her hand, testing to see what will make him respond. She first runs her fingertips lightly up the shaft, teasing more than anything. She feels him shudder, and his forehead falls against hers. She wraps her hand around him then, squeezing slowly and pumping up toward the head and back down again as he continues to moan, his breath coming faster now.

"That's it. Just like that. Can you go faster for me, kitten? Stroke me faster." She does, following his instruction and hoping for yet another day she avoids anything more than this heavy petting that seems to satisfy him. One of his hands releases the side of the tub and finds her breast, kneading it slowly then pinching her nipple between his fingers, twisting lightly. He's so gentle, his expert touch so precise, and she moans, hating that she is encouraging him.

"My lion likes how I pet her," he comments against her hair. She continues to tug on his cock as he plays with her gently. "So perfect. So fucking perfect, Hermione. Tell me you like this. Tell me it feels good how I'm touching you. Talk to me, my love. Tell me how hard my cock is in your hand. Fuck, you make me so fucking hard…"

She can't speak. She doesn't want to and she can't. It does feel good, what he's doing. And his words, though she knows they must be false, are the closest thing to affection she has. Hermione is smart enough to know she's teetering on the edge of Stockholm at this point and could weep for herself.

She is surprised more than anything else by his next request, for permission. "Can I mark you this time, Hermione? Let me come on you." He continues to caress her as he virtually begs. He's never let himself cover her, as he had said he so wanted to do back during their first days together. He has finished himself onto her robe and the sheets of the bed and the carpet around it.

To refuse is a dangerous game, so she nods her acquiescence. "Tell me," he says again. "Say it Hermione. Say I can."

"You can…" she says quietly, choking on the words. He continues the assault on her breast, his other hand holding her head, fingers playing in her curls. "You can come on me," she finishes, feeling lower than she ever has, but undeniably wound up as well.

He grunts at his release, and his lips search for hers. It's a sloppy, broken kiss as he comes, his body quivering. "Thank you," he finally says. He pulls back and searches the water near her feet for the sponge. Once found, he wrings out the excess water and begins to wipe his seed off of her clavicle and chest. He's gentle and even playful, swiping softly over her still-hard nipple and smiling at her as if to tease. "I've waited to do that for so long," he confesses, and she isn't sure if he means he has waited these past months or even longer. She doesn't feel bold enough to ask.

Once she's clean, the water drained and refilled to finish the job, he pulls her from the tub and dries her with a thick towel. He wraps the robe back around her gently, tying a bow at her waist, and then carries her to the bed. He lays her down, tucking the sheet beneath her chin, and kissing her once again. It's so intimate it makes her angry, knowing tomorrow he might be a different man altogether.

"Good night, sweet witch."

She doesn't see him again for three days.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sometimes, when Draco disappears for days at a time, Hermione tries to ask Pipsy when he might be back. She dreads his absence as much as it gives her relief, loneliness constantly at war with fear. Of course, Pipsy never answers, either saying simply that "Master Draco be keeping his own council" or literally saying nothing.

This time, however, she says, "Master Draco is not his-self, Miss."

Hermione, grooming her hair in front of a mirror, a hairbrush being one of her more recent luxuries, snorts in response. "Which one?"

"Miss?"

"Which Draco isn't he? I can hardly keep up with his personalities."

Pipsy doesn't reply, and Hermione turns to look at him. The little elf is tugging at his ears, wincing all the while.

Hermione drops the brush and crosses the room, dropping to a crouch in front of him. "Hey, don't do that. You didn't do anything, Pipsy. I'm the one who made a comment."

"Pipsy shouldn't talk about Master."

Hermione sighs, patting the little elf on his shoulder. "You didn't say anything really. And, I won't say a word to your Master."

His large round eyes are bulging and wet, lip quivering. Hermione is certain he is about to break down. She shushes and coos, petting him gently, until his trembling ceases.

Pipsy turns suddenly, picking up her empty dinner tray and giving Hermione a curt nod. "Miss should expect the Master soon." And with that, he pops away.

It's only when Draco arrives a few minutes later that she realizes Pipsy must have felt a shift in the wards. Today, Draco is nearly morose.

He doesn't speak when he enters, walking straight to her en suite and closing the door behind him. So it is to be one of those evenings. Hermione resigns herself to wait patiently, sitting with her legs folded beneath her in the center of the bed. He wasn't wearing his robes, she had noticed, nor his mask. It's preferable to her when he doesn't come to her with blood on his clothes. Preferable. Easier. Easier to believe he's not a monster, at least no more than his quick flashes of mania, and that whatever physicality he pushes between them she allows because she chooses to do so.

When he emerges some time later, he still remains silent. He is undressed completely, his hair mussed and his skin still dripping with moisture. She's not entirely sure he used a towel at all. The most surprising part of his appearance is that he is flaccid between his legs. He has never been undressed around her without palpable arousal.

He approaches the bed, and she climbs off of it, greeting him quietly. "Hello."

Draco glances at her then, his eyes profoundly sad, but he still says nothing. Sliding the bed clothes to one side, he climbs in and covers himself. She stands over him, waiting for him to make some move. She's not sure how long she stands, unmoving, before he speaks.

"This room is cold. Get in."

He doesn't sound angry or welcoming. Resigned, perhaps.

Hermione gingerly lifts the edge of the sheet and slides her legs in as well, immediately touching his feet with her own by accident. She mumbles, "sorry," to which he makes no response.

For all the times he has come to her bed, laid beside her to satisfy his needs, this is a new experience. Hermione turns on her side, snuggling more deeply into the mattress, and closes her eyes. She hopes she will find sleep, and equally that she will wake to a cold mattress rather than a demanding and quite naked Malfoy.

Sleep has nearly taken her when she feels the bed shift. Draco turns toward her, inching his body closer, and slipping his arm around her waist. She feels his nose pressed against her skull through her curls, and he slips one leg over hers, running his toes up her calf.

He's holding her, like a lover.

It is only after some time, her breathing steady as she is once again near sleep, that she feels his body quake, and she knows he is crying softly. She doesn't dare comment, does not offer comfort. Perhaps just being here is enough to fight back the demons that chase him through the day. She is not sure she would have called him conflicted at any time during the war, but suddenly she is reminded of a scared teenage boy, sobbing to a ghost in an abandoned bathroom, and she wonders just what lengths it has taken to completely destroy this man.

In the morning, the mattress is cold as she had hoped, only she is disappointed rather than relieved.

XXXXXXXXX

The best nights are often marked by the hardest days. When Draco returns the following evening, he is eerie.

"It's All Hallow's Eve, Hermione. Can you feel it?"

She lost track of days at some point. One of her punishments weeks ago was a loss of her window for a time. Draco magically concealed the opening, leaving her with no natural light or way to track her days and nights. She assumed it was October but could not have known the day.

Instead of any explanation as to why she didn't know, she answers, "No, I didn't realize."

"Muggle," he sneers at her, angry and awful. "The magic should sing to your blood if it wasn't so dirty. I can feel everything."

He looks away from her then, glancing about the room and then approaching the window. He gazes into the blackness, the sky clouded and moon obscured, before whispering, "The veil is thin tonight and the dead are walking." She shivers, unsure if it is his words or the conviction with which he says them. She nearly believes it to be true.

She stays where she is, standing awkwardly beside the bed. When she gives no response, he looks a her, barking, "Well?!" to which she has no answer.

Then he's storming about the room, pushing over the vanity chair and knocking the various bits of brick-a-brack from the shelves and mantels. "There's no room for the dead here, Hermione! We used it all up! Where would He suppose we keep them all?! The dungeons?! Oh, there's  _enough_  dead to deal with, and the smell will never come out of those walls!"

He stops mid-rant and looks at her, haunted suddenly. "What would Mother think? Ashamed, I'm sure of it. She's so  _ashamed_ ," he laments.

Then he turns again, grasping a glass bird and smashing it against the wall just to the left of Hermione. She screams and covers her head, ducking to the side and barely hearing him as he continues his tirade.

"I'll burn everything down, those fucks! Then they won't have to worry about the dead, will they? None of us will! We'll all be the same anyway! All fucking dead!"

He's breathing heavily, standing in place and body heaving as his lungs consume the air around him. Then he is stalking toward her, and Hermione pushes herself back against wall, bracing herself.

When he is close enough, he takes her face in his hands, not gentle though not precisely painful, and searches her eyes. He no longer seems as panicked as he had only a moment ago, and now simply looks intense. "You knew, didn't you?" he accuses her, and she is left at a loss.

"What did I know, Draco?"

He shakes her once, hard, then tries again, louder. "You know fucking  _everything_ , Granger. Everything!"

"I don't," she says with some strength in her voice. "I don't know everything."

She's not sure why she bothers to reason with him when he's like this. It never accomplishes anything. He will throw her to the bed and find release against her robe, or stomp out of the room, screaming obscenities behind him, or maybe even shove her into something and grin maniacally at her surprise, but he will certainly not listen.

"You  _do_ ," he emphasizes. "I have to believe that you do." His voice goes softer as he speaks, and his grip on her lightens in pressure. Then he is merely cupping her cheeks, looking at her passively.

"Or maybe you really don't. Maybe you really are just a mudblood."

He leaves her there, walking purposefully from the room and closing the door with perfect civility behind him. Hermione slowly lets the tension leave her muscles and her body slides down the wall to the floor. When Pipsy brings food later, she doesn't ask about Draco or try to learn anything new. She just chews her food slowly, wondering how long it would take for his madness to seep into her like poison.

XXXXXXXXXXX

"What about here?"

It must be close to the holidays by now. Draco came to see her early in the morning today, which is rather rare. On most occasions, he comes in the evening, presumably after whatever terrible things he is a part of each day as a Death Eater. Sometimes, he smells like blood and smoke, and she pretends it away as best she can.

He moves his hand from the swell of her breast to the curve beneath. He's a gentle Draco this morning, his mood almost serene. He had asked her politely to lay on the bed and curled in beside her. When he touched her, it was cautious, asking permission with each step. "Here as well? Can I touch you here, Hermione?"

She doesn't respond, which is relatively typical for this type of game. He hasn't broken her pride enough that she will acquiesce to his advances, but nor does she fight. It's been months since he did more than push her into a wall in his anger, and she does not want to visit any of the cruelty for which Death Eaters are known.

"Here, then? Your trim, little body… You really are such a delicate thing, love." His large hand palms the dip at her waist, fingertips tickling her gently. He's moving slow today, patient. She would almost say he's trying to seduce her.

He trails down, slow circles and patterns traced on her flat tummy, until he reaches the band of her knickers. His mouth is close to her ear, breath warm and slow. How relaxing to be touched in this way, how easily lulled into comfort by this rare sort of caress.

"I've never touched you here," he tells her quietly. "Could I pet you today? I'll treat you so sweetly, kitten."

She stiffens a little, heartbeat increasing. The way he's touching her today, the gentle sound of his voice, would it be a terrible thing to let herself take what he's offering? It doesn't change who they are, and it doesn't mean she's complicit in her abduction… right? Hermione finds herself conflicted the most on days when he is kind.

So, as is her habit, she doesn't respond, nor does she push him away. And when his fingertip slip just beneath the silk, she whimpers in anticipation. "Good girl," he says on an exhale, almost as if he had held his breath for her response. "My very good girl." His forefinger reaches further, sliding over her mound and settling gently against her clit. A simple stroke up and down, and Hermione moans softly, turning her head away from him, ashamed by the pleasure pulsing through her.

She feels him shift, his hand remaining where it is, but then he is leaned over her. He lowers his face toward hers and presses one soft kiss to the corner of her mouth. "Don't hide from me, lover." He adds light pressure now, stroking just a bit faster. "Let me see those beautiful eyes."

He slides the tip of his finger down to her slit, gathering the moisture he finds and returning his attention to her clit. Now slick and warm, he sets a steady pace on her once again. "Do you like when I touch you here, pet?" He kisses her again, lips parted and tongue peeking out to swipe at her lower lip. He does it again, tongue lingering this time, and again. Each time a little more wet, a bit more hesitation before he pulls away. He adds his teeth, nibbling lightly on her lip, alternating his nips with the licks of his tongue, and his breathing picks up to match hers, the pace of his hand increasing in tandem.

Then they are kissing, her head turned back toward him and her hand sliding to the back of his neck. Draco moans into her mouth when she laps her tongue against his, and she pushes her pelvis up to meet his hand, suddenly desperate to feel the rush of orgasm, lost in his physical touch and trying to forget anything of her circumstances beyond the immediate. Their kiss has turned harder, deep, just as his pace reaches near frenzy, and she is bucking at him, lifting her hips from the bed and gripping his face with both hands.

He pulls his mouth from hers just enough to whisper, lips nearly touching. "Fuck, Hermione, come for me. That's it… come all over my hand, gorgeous fucking witch…."

She breaks, and her body convulses, and she clings to him. "Oh God, Draco…" She shudders, his finger still laying gentle pressure makes her twitch with every minute movement.

Then he kisses her again, achingly sweet. "It all could have been different," he says. "Maybe, in another life, it was."

He leaves then, that final cryptic comment echoing in her mind as her body comes down. She's confused by him, as always, and also feeling guilt settle in for having succumbed to her body's craving for attention. For affection. It will be even harder now, when he is cruel. When he is drowning in his madness. How do you hate someone, pity them, fear them, and crave them all at once?

This time, rather than hours or days or weeks before his return, Draco simply doesn't come back at all.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione has long accepted she might not make it through the war alive, but after years on the battlefield, she never expected to be at the mercy of Draco Malfoy. Not untouched by his own experiences, his manic behavior leaves her living in constant fear of the unknown, suffering both affections and afflictions at his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter of my first Dark Draco, courtesy of the "Tropes Drawing" by the Dramione Fanfiction Writers group. Thanks to them, Beta LightofEvolution, Alpha In Dreams, and all of you for reading.

The air is scented with the copper of blood and sulphur and fire. It's a battle, like many others he's seen, but this one leaves his mind clearing like the smoke around him.

Draco has a bloody rock in his hand he had just used to slam into someone's head. The other wizard, an Order member, had been straddling him, punching him in the face. Screaming something. Whatever his words, like many things, they didn't really register as anything more than noise. He had wanted vengeance, it seemed, but was cut short when a stone to his temple toppled him.

Is he dead? It's of no concern to Draco… except then it is. Only just, but more than before. He feels confused now, looking around the field of bodies and survivors around him. It's never been like this before. Usually, once a battle is done, those left standing apparate away to lick their wounds and assess their dead. Draco would return to the Manor. Most times, to his Master Suite, Pipsy waiting with fresh clothes and a bath drawn.

Sometimes, though, he would visit Granger. Not always. He often hadn't want her to see him like this, covered in the blood of her friends. Except sometimes, he wanted exactly that. Just to be sure she never forgets; that she knows who he is and what he could do to her. How he could make her scream or bleed. His mind never was able to decide what he wanted, the past few years. Recently, though, what it seemed he wanted was Granger.

Draco looks up once again, noticing Death Eaters trying to scramble away. Should he join them? It doesn't feel like he wants to. Then he sees Potter, the boy who inevitably,  _always_ lives. The man is surrounded by members of the Light, all hugging and clapping him on the back, joyous smiles on their faces. At Potter's feet, lies the cloaked and lifeless body of the Dark Lord.

Panic starts to settle in. They'll come for him, he thinks. They will murder him. And then who will look after Hermione?

His thoughts keep snapping, point to point, from where he was to where he should be.

Then the green eyes of Harry Potter bore into him, and he can barely react before he is hauled to his feet by his rival and punched hard in the face.

XXXXXXXX

When he wakes, he is bound by more than a spell, physical manacles around his wrists. Draco feels groggy, swaying as he tries to stand.

"I wouldn't, if I were you."

He blinks, looking for the voice, and finds Potter looking down at him from the other side of steel bars.

Draco clears his throat, finding it rough, his mouth cotton-dry. "Potter." It carries none of his usual arrogance or his drawl. He finds his body is to exhausted for that; his mind unclear.

"Malfoy. Do you know where you are?"

"A nightmare," he offers, then follows with, "but, then, I've been living in one for years." Draco pauses, wetting his lips, then asks, "How long have I been here?"

"Two days." Potter shrugs at him, as if losing days from your life and your mind is nothing at all of consequence. Nothing to be mourned.

"I have something of yours," Draco responds with a grin, but then it falters. Why is he so happy to have her hidden away? She's probably scared by now, without Draco coming to visit, to soothe and pet her. Is Pipsy keeping her fed? What if he didn't leave instructions that she was to be fed? His brain is fuzzy, and he's not really certain either way.

Meanwhile, Potter has his brow furrowed and is demanding, "What do you mean, Malfoy? What could you possibly… is it Ginny! If you've hurt her, you complete fuck, I will end you! And it won't be an  _Avada,_  either. I'll go full Muggle and you will  _beg_  me to kill you-"

"Not a Weasley, Potter. If you've lost your little pet rodent, I can't help you. The pet I found is a kitten."

There is a pause, Potter seeming to try to calm himself. "I have no idea what that's supposed to mean, Malfoy. Where the fuck is Ginny?"

"Dead, most likely. Death collects all our lost things," he says, but the words don't feel like his own to use. Like he's borrowing things and forgot to put them back.

Outside the bars, Harry slides down the wall, one hand sliding back into his hair and gripping the roots. "I'd hoped, maybe…" He looks up, but his eyes are unseeing. "What the hell do I tell Molly?"

Draco doesn't have a response for that, so he ignores the entire sentiment. He's not even sure it was meant for him. "You still haven't guessed properly, Potter. Properly… Potter… Have you noticed how irritating your name is? Too much obnoxious alliteration." He isn't sure why he made that observation, but it seemed very important at the time.

The other wizard is eyeing him now in a way he very much does not like. "What is the matter with you?"

"Ah, ah," he teases. "Not really the question you should be asking. Have you forgotten the original game? You have to guess which kitten I have."

"Fuck off, Malfoy, you just confirmed my best mate's sister is likely dead. Besides, if you're referring to the dungeons, we've already rescued everyone there. The few still alive at least."

"My prize kitten is hardly in the  _dungeons_ , Potter. She has to be properly groomed or her mane is just entirely unruly."

Potter's eyes go wide, and Draco would swear he looks like he's going to cry, the ridiculous tosser. He said she's  _alive_  not  _dead_ … Shouldn't he look a little more relieved? Grateful even? What a dick.

"Hermione?"

"Obviously, you dim little troll."

"Where is she?!" he demands, yelling angrily at Draco who sits calmly, watching. "Tell me where she is, or I'll let an Auror team get it out of you. I'm the civilized choice, Malfoy. Anyone else will treat you like the monster you are."

"You really are wretched at this, Potter. Threats already? You haven't even given me time to refuse. Never could follow the rules like the rest of us."

"This is not a game! Hermione is going to starve, you bastard!"

Draco doesn't think that's true. He's certain Pipsy will take care of her. Isn't he? And why exactly is he keeping her location to himself? She can't come see him if no one gets her out. And he very much hopes she will come see him.

"Don't be ridiculous. She will do no such thing. I take exceptional care of what's mine."

"Where...Is...She?" He grits out through this teeth. Hermione wouldn't like him grinding them like that. Her parents, she had mentioned once, teeth healers...he's sure would not approve.

"Im my bedroom, obviously."

"You bastard." Suddenly Draco knows pain like he only has from the end of The Dark Lord's wand. From seemingly nowhere, Potter has pulled his own wand and licks of pain are racing through Draco's blood and bone. He's familiar with the  _Cruciatus_ , from both sides of the wand, but there is true hatred here. Draco thinks, more than a little impressed, Bellatrix would be envious of the level of Potter's hate.

Eventually, the pain lifts. Draco is left panting on his hands and knees on dirty stone. Something in him breaks apart a little, and it seems to surprise Potter as much as it does himself when his response is to laugh. Heartily and more honest than he has in years, he laughs with abandon, his rival staring down at him.

"What is wrong with you?"

"Oh, my dear Potter, so very many things…"

"You're crazy… Whatever, I don't fucking care. Just, how do I find her?"

"Pipsy!" he calls for the elf, undecided if he will demand that the creature show Potter how to find his kitten or to order that the elf to hide her away somewhere safe until he can retrieve her. But then, nothing happens. There is no crack of magic that signifies his arrival. He turns a dangerous look back to his captor. "Where's my fucking house elf, Potter? Where's my elf?!"

The bastard shrugs at him. "Back at your manor, I would imagine. But they can't reach you here. Surely you didn't think it would be that easy? That your slave would just magic you away?"

Draco doesn't like being condescended to, especially by a thick knob like Potter. So, he decides that in hindsight, his efforts would have been magnanimous. "Pipsy could have led you to Granger. But without me to give that order, you're on your own." He grins, wide and, he hopes, a little terrifying. He  _feels_ terrifying. Or is it terrified? Draco feels like he is too full of something.

He feels a lot of different things, come to think of it. Has done for a long time, but it's different today. There is a shift in the air and in his mind. Where is Granger? She had a way of making the buzzing quiet. Making his pulse race or slow in equal parts. His head feels fuzzy, and he loses himself for a moment, thinking of crawling into bed with his witch.

Someone is talking. "What?"

"Jesus fuck, Malfoy, I asked what room she's in. Tell me how to find her. I can do things to help you. Trade for information. Help us find her and we can get you a better location. A room more than a gaol cell."

Draco blinks and takes in the dim light filtering from the corridor and around the silhouette of Harry Potter. He's in a cell. He didn't realize… or perhaps he'd forgotten. "Who are you looking for?"

"Bloody fuck, Malfoy… Hermione! Where is Hermione?!"

He snaps a bit more to attention. Granger. She will be looking for her tea. He does hope Pipsy hasn't neglected to care for her. Did he leave instructions? Draco can't remember.

"How long have I been here?"

Potter looks at a loss for a moment, mouth hanging open. Was it a difficult question?

"Two days, Malfoy. You've been here two days.."

Struggling to his feet, Draco staggers, slowed by the wait of the manacles, to the bars. In response, Potter backs away, looking at him with distrust. "You have to get me out, Potter. She'll be waiting for me."

"She's alive then… you swear?" the other man breathes out, looking for assurance. For some reason, Draco finds the comment exceptionally irritating.

"Of course she's alive! Now let me the fuck out! I need to go!"

The buffoon is still eyeing him, and when he speaks, his voice is low and controlled. "When I find her, Malfoy, if she's not…." Draco watches him struggle, trying to find words that are somehow elusive. "I expect to find her safe, and if I don't, I'm coming back for you. You'll wish you died with your parents, I promise."

"Fuck you, Potter," he whispers, suddenly angry again. Then, the other man simply walks away. Draco is furious, jumping back to his feet and stretching against the chains that bind him. "FUCK YOU!"

His voice echoes against the stone walls, but only the sound of Potter's footsteps retreating comes as answer.

XXXXXXXX

He is left alone again. He isn't sure how long, but he vaguely knows he is fed and a guard hints at the time of day. "This be yer breakfast," he'd comment, or "This here yer supper."

He wakes often drowning in sweat, screaming for Hermione Granger. The Mark on his arm, the brand that made him belong to Voldemort for so long, is pulsing. He feels the snake curling around the skull, wriggling like it's made of fire on his skin. It's a searing, disgusting pain, and he cries until it starts to dull, and then he finds sleep.

XXXXXXX

"Malfoy?"

He looks up, not believing the voice. Perhaps it's another dream then?

"Hermione?"

She is holding a tray in her hands and looking down at him where he is huddled under a blanket on the floor. She frowns as she takes him in. "They said I could bring you this."

He watches as she opens the small trap beside the door and pushes the tray through. Draco doesn't move toward it, instead he watches Hermione as she straightens back to standing. "They found you." He doesn't say it any particular way. It is observation. Acknowledgement.

Because he's not entirely sure how he should feel about it.

"They did," she says, watching him closely.

He feels very exposed, their positions of power reversed. Of all the things he is thinking, one in particular wins out. "Did Pipsy care for you?"

Draco watches her eyes widen in surprise. "Yes, he came to see me every day. He told me you were… not coming back. I thought maybe...you'd died."

She swallows, and he almost thinks maybe she didn't want that to happen. That she hadn't wanted any harm to befall him. It makes him grin, some of his swagger returning. "It would take much more than the Order to keep me from you, pretty kitty."

Her face hardens a little, and she snorts in return. "Apparently, steel bars and some shackles do the trick." She smacks the bar with the back of her hand to punctuate her point. Cheeky thing, his Hermione.

Something about the way she is looking at him he finds rather disturbing. She looks angry. No, that's not entirely right. She looks wary. Had he not been good to her?

Mostly…

"I've missed you," he tells her, and he means it. She sucks in a breath, but otherwise makes no reply. "I hoped Pipsy would take care of you. I asked him to, I think. I meant to, at least, when my thoughts were clear."

She ponders that, studying him. "Are your thoughts… clear now?"

Draco is lost a moment, thinking about Pipsy and warm soup and the bed with blue silk sheets that he had made just for her. He almost misses the question. "Hmm? Oh. Yes… mostly, yes. It's hard to say. I think this might just be as clear as they will get." It strikes him as funny, what he just said, so he chuckles. Hermione doesn't join him.

After a short silence, she backs away, two slow steps from his cell. "I'll… I'll come back, alright? Just… hang in there."

That jolts him out of his reverie, and Draco scrambles to his feet. "You're leaving? You can't leave me here. Hermione, please…" He knows his eyes are wide, and he must look a mess, but he doesn't care about any propriety. In that moment, he just doesn't want her to go.

"I just…" she says, slowly, and he can tell she's trying to think of a lie. "I just need to get a few things. I'll be back before you know it."

"No. Granger, I fucking forbid it!" His panic starts to slide into anger, as it often does. "Get back here. Get the fuck back here! Granger! GRANGER!" He hears her footfalls once she's turned the corner and swears she breaks into a run. He's angry and afraid and very sad. Because he knows she has no reason to ever come back.

XXXXXX

Days pass, blurred and uncertain, marked haphazardly by meals and the changing of the guard. Bernie, the one with improper grammar, has dark hair and a good disposition. Draco barks orders at him sometimes, demands things that are never delivered. He isn't even sure he actually wants the man to bring his wool socks or emerald tie pin or his mother's music box that plays Moonlight Sonata… he just feels more like himself when he wants things. When he feels he is entitled to them.

On other days, the guard has sandy hair and never introduces himself. He suffers no disrespect and does cruel things. When Draco asks for more water, his gaoler spits in the cup. When he demands a warming charm, he finds himself splashed with hot soup. The man grins at him every time he speaks, daring him to complain. Draco forgets, sometimes, to stay quiet. He has bruises, a testament to those times.

Some days, his head pounds and his mark crawls on his skin like insects. He misses Hermione, and he tries to remember what happened a week ago. A month. He remembers he cursed Hermione once, and it settles in his stomach, making him feel he could wretch. How could he have done that?

And there are other things. He remembers her delicate touch and the smell of her skin. Her wide eyes, stiff posture. Had he scared her? Surely that can't be right.

One morning he thinks of Dean Thomas and goes pale, remembering how Goyle had hit him so hard with a cutting curse he'd nearly severed him in two. Dean Thomas who, before that moment, was relegated to vague memories of him paired with Finnegan or watching Quidditch or laughing at the Gryffindor table.

From there, he spirals. He feels feverish, sweating but shivering, crouched on the stone floor and eyes darting around, anticipating some sort of retribution to come. More memories come. Muggles with wide, dead eyes, his brethren standing over them. The Dark Lord, punishing him and praising him in equal measure. Members of the Order and Death Eaters alike, bleeding out on the ground, crying for their mothers or Merlin to save them.

He thinks surely he will die. His fever spikes higher and he believes he is in other places. His skin feels like paper, and he tries to scratch it off to find himself beneath it. Like he might molt something away and come back better. He has just enough presence of mind to know he has been slipping. He feels drunk, knowing he isn't himself but unable to pull himself out of the mire of his madness.

He wakes more lucid and remembers his mother is dead. Draco sobs so hard he vomits whatever food he managed to choke down. He wishes Granger was with him. He imagines wrapping his arms around her, feeling her heartbeat under his hand, but in his dreams she slices him open with a blade or begs him, sobbing, to let her go.

After untold days of being alone, Draco wakes, folds his blanket neatly, stacking it in the corner with his shoes, and waits for his first meal to come. It's the cruel one today, and Draco simply nods at him in recognition when he slides the tray through the slot.

He eats carefully. Of course they do not provide him a knife, but he slowly spears each precut bite of sausage, chewing patiently and letting the food nourish him. He doesn't let his mind wander, knowing that there is nothing good to come from his thoughts. He is nearly hoping for execution at this point, knowing it is likely he will get that wish.

Sometime in the afternoon, his lunch tray already having been taken away, he hears soft footsteps approach. It's not the shuffling sound of Bernie, nor the quick, sure stride of the other one. He knows before he sees her, before he smells her scent; it's Hermione.

"Granger," he rasps out, realizing he hasn't used his voice in days. There is relief at seeing her as much as trepidation. His mind flashes to her in the bedroom, letting him hold her close, but then she is trembling and begging him to stop. He squeezes his eyes shut, willing the dream away. Or was that one a memory?

His eyes go wide when she doesn't simply stop at his door, but instead moves to open it. The metal squeals as it swings open, and then nothing is between them except empty space. Do his chains extend to the door? He isn't sure, but he wants so much to be near her.

Draco stands, slightly shaky. He feels nervous and unsure. These are not things to which he is accustomed to feeling. He takes a step forward, testing, and she doesn't flinch. Another step, and another, and she never moves, keeping her eyes on him and her hands by her side.

When he reaches her, his feet no more than inches away from the toes of her boots, he stops, his own hands flinching and twitching near his thighs. Why isn't she moving?

Reaching up to her face, he lays his fingertips lightly against her cheek. He doesn't understand what's happening, but suddenly it's difficult to breathe, and he brings his other hand up as well, cupping her face and pressing his forehead against hers. "Hermione…"

When she lays her hands on each side of his neck, so heartbreakingly gentle, he feels a sob choke him, caught in his throat and his body hitching with the force of it. "What's wrong with me?"

He looks down at her to find her rather stoically gazing back. She still hasn't spoken, but he can't stop the questions that have been slowly starting to eat at him the last few days. "What did I do to you, Granger? What the fuck have I been doing?"

Hermione moves one hand from his neck and sets it lightly against his forearm. It's painful and it makes him hiss, removing his hands and stepping back from her.

"Can't you feel the darkness in it?" she asks softly. "Can you still hear Him?"

Standing in the middle of a stone room, one hand protectively hiding the brand on his skin, he squints at her, not quite understanding.

"It's poison."

What she's saying, he thinks this is something he already knows. Couldn't he feel the Dark Magic swirl into his blood the day he was marked? He'd known even then, felt the degradation of his natural magic.

"What will happen to me now? Now that… that He's dead. Will it… fix me? Can I even be fixed?" he finishes softly, feeling haunted by his own ghost.

The look she returns is regretful and sad, and she says, "Some things that are broken can never truly be fixed."

"What did I do to you?" he asks again, memories in pieces. He remembers feeding her and holding her, but there are flashes of other things, and he feels sick for what must be the thousandth time in so many days.

"Nothing I couldn't survive."

He studies her then. She seems so poised. So collected. But there is a shift to her eyes and stiffness to her spine. "You're afraid of me," he says sadly.

"You told me I should be," she reminds him, and it floods his mind with memories of the day he found her. He had said that… and he'd meant it. Merlin, he had wanted her to be terrified even as he had coveted her.

He drops, then, to his knees with his head hung low, his hand still holding his mark. He doesn't even hear her leave, but when he looks up, she's gone.

XXXXXXX

"Mister Malfoy."

How long has it been? He never really knows, his dreams flowing into his waking memories like water rushing onto the beach. He is living in the liminal space between his fears and his past.

He sits up now, his head swimming a little when he moves too fast. Two wizards stare down at him. They are dressed much as the staff in St. Mungos, though their faces show none of the kindness of a healer.

"Mister Malfoy, I am here on behalf of the Ministry. I must ask that you remain seated and do not move unless we instruct you to do so."

Draco looks over the man's shoulder and sees both of his familiar guards. They have their wands drawn, and it occurs to him they are here to protect the healers. Why had they not come with Hermione on her last visit? Why had she been allowed to enter his cell?

Had she even been here at all? He more than suspects that she had not.

Draco thinks he nods, agreeing not to move, but he's not sure he actually moves his head. They look wary as they cross the room.

The older of the two steps into Draco's personal space, his own wand at the ready. "Your arm, if you please."

The healer is holding out his hand, asking for access to the Mark on Draco's forearm. He lifts it, twisting so that the mark is staring straight up and bends his wrist to better angle the ink. Showing it off. Asking for praise or penance.

_Look at what I am._

"It's fading," the younger one notes.

The healer holding Draco's arm in one hand agrees. "It is. They all are, but there's so much Dark Magic already inside, it hardly matters."

The younger one approaches and casts a nonverbal spell that leaves Draco paralyzed in his position.

"What is this?" he demands immediately, speaking for the first time and not liking this feeling of vulnerability.

"No more than what you did to that Granger girl," the nasty guard barks over at him. It's true, isn't it. He had kept his kitten tame.

"Just to keep you from thrashing about, Mister Malfoy." Draco looks back in the healer's face. He seems no more kind nor warm than before.

"What are you doing?! Get your fucking hands off me-" His protests are cut off into a scream when he feels a wand touch his Mark, pain travelling through his veins. The binding ensures he can't flinch away, but he yells and then whimpers when they don't stop.

He tries to breathe through the trauma, finding a chip in one stone block on the corridor wall. He focuses there, imagining he could crawl inside the cracks in the mortar, visualizing hiding himself in the very rock and dirt.

"You're a right mess," he thinks the man murmurs, the pain making it hard to hear. It feels like his blood is being stripped from his body, like worms are being torn from his veins, pulled by their long lengths through the channels that house his lifeblood. He can envision it as clearly as the sees the cracks in the stone, his blood turned to insects, crawling over one another to escape through his skin.

"Reckon it'll kill him? Like that Lestrange prick?"

Draco hadn't entertained the possibility that whatever they are doing might kill him. He tries to thrash, the pain dulled by fresh fear.

"And that is why you're bound," one of them says to him. "Move too much, it only hurts worse."

His eyes snap from the corridor over the faces of the wizards around him and finally down to his own arm. He feels his gorge rise at the sight of it. His limb looks raw, the skin tearing itself open and the snake writhing like it feels the same pain as Draco. A sludge, black like tar, physically exits his veins, blood seeping out around it and dripping down his arm.

"Almost there," the man assures him, and he wishes he knew his name so he could use it to beg,  _please please_  not to let him die.

The pain is a crescendo, the last of the blackness clinging to him, like tiny claws gripping him inside his veins and tearing them out, ripping through a network of nerves, until it's too much and his vision goes black.

XXXXXXXXXX

When he opens his eyes, bleary and unfocused, one of the healers is leaned over him, studying his Mark. Draco looks down at the devastation of his arm, finding the brand still there, but now torn and scarred, his flesh jagged and ugly.

"There's no healing the scars of Dark Magic, I'm afraid. That's the best it will be."

"I was hoping it would be gone," he whispers, mostly to himself. He wonders how long it's been.

Draco sits up with effort, cradling his arm with his other hand and whimpering at his own movement. He looks around at the healer, the cell, and feels his breathing pick up, panic sweeping through his veins. His mind is, for the first time in longer than he can remember, untainted and clear, and he is horrified at the memories he finds there, coming fast in flashes.

"What… what have I done?" Unfortunately, he knows the answer, unable to keep the images out of his head, and he breaks down, sobbing into his hands.

Xxxxxxxx

"Draco Malfoy, it is the decision of the noble council of wizards that you should be stripped of your wand and magic and confined to one of your family's smaller holdings. The Malfoy ancestral home and all Gringotts funds will be seized in restitution for crimes during the second wizarding war by both yourself and your father."

Draco swallows hard. He is shackled in the center of a large room, elder witches and wizards peering down at him while he cowers in literal chains. He's just lost everything.

Glancing around, he's hoping to find a head of bushy curls in attendance, but she hasn't come. He's not seen her since he was delirious in his cell and is losing hope that she has any intention of seeing him again.

"However," the wizard continues, "we also acknowledge the research as provided by one Hermione Granger that suggests you were not entirely in control of your actions these past years."

He perks up. She researched for him. Protected him. Why she would do anything for him after some of the things he did and said he cannot imagine.

"As such, your wand will be returned to you and your freedom granted after a five year period with the potential for early release based on your willingness to cooperate with studies on the nature of the Dark Mark. Do you agree to these terms?"

Unable to speak, Draco simply nods. A gavel hits the heavy oak bench, and with that, Draco is sent home.

She comes to him in the Autumn. It's been months, and Draco has settled into a routine that is little more than a half life, only Pipsy for company and conversation. Conflicted and bitter and grieving, Draco spends his days reading and regretting. Her appearance leaves him without words. Pipsy had greeted her, offering her a seat in his small receiving room, and then alerted him that he had a visitor. The moment he sees her, everything between them floods his memories. He sees her cowering and begging. He sees her beyond the bars of his cell, promising to return though she never did. He sees her in battle, fierce and dangerous.

But mostly, he sees those eyes that had given him refuge when he came to her bloody. He sees the witch he's coveted since they were children. He sees the only thing in this world he wants to be his, though he lost everything else.

"Draco, I-"

In two strides he reaches her, capturing her face between his palms and slanting his mouth over hers firmly. He should probably be shocked that she doesn't protest. Maybe somewhere he is. Mostly, though, he can't think beyond this moment.

This kiss.

In the beginning, it's nothing but pressure. Firm and possessive, telling her with his mouth pressed against hers that she is his, his, his. That he wants her and he has her and nothing was more frightening to him than to believe he would never see her again. But as the kiss lingers, he softens, both the pressure of his lips as well as his embrace. Draco wraps himself around her, pulling her close and burying one hand in the softness of her curls. He gentles the kiss until he is nipping at licking at her languidly, tasting her and relishing her in a way he had never done before. She is pliant and warm, and then she is returning his affection, her small hands cupping his face and her soft and welcoming body leaning into the hard planes of his own. He feels her try to pull away and whimpers against her mouth, suddenly terrified to let her go.

"Hermione, please," he murmurs against her, begging her not to pull away. Maybe simply not to leave.

"I wasn't sure," she starts softly, "what I was going to say when I got here. I'm still not sure. Part of me thought you wouldn't even want to talk to me."

He looks down at her, incredulous. "Not want to talk to you?"

She pulls away from her, backing up a pace and folding her hands behind her back. "Right. Now that you're back to… well,  _you_ again. You never held me in very high regard before…"

_Before._  Before he nearly raped her? Draco flinches at the implication. "I held you in higher regard than I could admit. Hermione..." He doesn't know what to say, what words to use. "It wasn't..." He covers the remaining scars and darkened skin of his mark with the palm of his right hand. "This didn't make me want you. I'm sure it seems that way now, but it wasn't. You made me want you... this just made me cruel."

He watches her take a breath. "I think I came here to yell at you," she tells him. "Part of me still wants to. But I also want to know what I should feel about what happened. How do I know what parts of you were real and what parts made us both a victim?"

He doesn't know how to answer that, and he tells her as much. "I'm having trouble separating some things myself. But...I am sorry. So fucking sorry I hurt you. I just wanted you," he admits, hoping she can understand. "I wanted you for so long, since Hogwarts probably, so I just took you."

"You can't just take, Draco."

"I know..." And he does... he knows that. It seems it should be rather obvious now, where before he'd ever considered anything else. "I can't believe... everything I've done..." his breath hitches, and then she is there, closing the distance she herself put between them.

Her arms wrapped around him, Draco swallows hard. Hermione is compassionate. A champion for the lost and abused. He understands her affection for him might be based on his broken soul, but he can't find it within himself to care. He returns her embrace, pulling her into him and burying his face in her hair.

"I'll help you," she promises, and he clings harder, taking what she promises. He hopes she can fix him, that he can be fixed. He hopes she will stay.

Though she sometimes has to leave, returning to her life outside, Hermione stays with him in all ways that matter. She fights for him, pulling him from the mire of his regrets and defending him relentlessly. She gives herself to him completely, so that he doesn't have to take.

He is hers, gratefully and with no reservation. Months turn into years, and, even after his freedom is granted, she stays. She is the presence of light and he loves her completely. He hadn't realized how much until they siphoned the darkness, tearing it from his skin and his blood. Hermione Granger saved him as surely as the healers.

In the dark, she trails her fingertips against his skin and whispers affections.

Though still, there is a voice. It is soft and rough, a rasp that slithers across Draco's mind. He's not sure if it belongs to him or someone else, so he does his best to silence it. Maybe there was always darkness inside him. Perhaps it is inherited from his father? Or in his blood? Or simply a part of his mind after so many years of inflicting pain. He doesn't tell Hermione. He is at least in agreement with that darkness: Hermione belongs to him, and he will never give her up. Her light chases his shadows to the corners no one can see.

In the dark, he holds her tight, all the voices inside agreeing he has everything he needs.


End file.
